


the bittersweet between my teeth

by figure8



Series: it's not where you come from (it's where you belong) [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Green Arrow (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:23:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5850229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Are you ready to ask for help now?"</i>
</p><p>--</p><p>Bruce never thought being in love would hurt that bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bittersweet between my teeth

**Author's Note:**

> takes place right after [give me your filth (and make it rough)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5569564?view_full_work=true). we're almost at the happy end, guys! thanks for sticking with me through this ridiculous journey. i love you all

“What is this,” Lex’s voice resonates in the room like a bad omen, “A high school reunion?”

Oliver shoots him an unimpressed look, not bothering to move from Bruce’s lap. “What, you wanna join?”

“No thank you,” Lex glares. “I’m not a degenerate like you.”

Oliver shrugs. “Your loss, man.”

Bruce lets his head fall on Oliver’s shoulder, his face bright red. He’s too high to actually care about the gay thing, and he knows Lex doesn’t really give a shit anyway, but there’s something inherently embarrassing about getting caught making out with Oliver Queen, no matter how many times it happens. Lex is used to it, though. Bruce wonders if all these rich imbeciles sending their kids to all-boys boarding schools really think there’s any chance they’re getting their offspring back with their heterosexuality intact.

“What do you want, Luthor?” he asks, and he intends for it to sound menacing, but his voice is muffled by Oliver’s nice woolen sweatshirt, and judging by Lex’s unmoved scowl, he has failed.

“I was looking for you, actually,” Lex says, leaning back against the door he just closed behind him. “Wanted to talk about these expansion plans of yours. But I see you’re busy.”

“He is,” Ollie agrees gleefully. “Can you come back later? You know our Bruce, hates mixing business with pleasure.”

Bruce groans against him, annoyed. “No, give me a minute.”

“How much did you take?” Lex asks coolly.

Bruce blinks. “What?”

“I’m not an idiot, Wayne. There’s coke all over the coffee table. How high are you?”

“Not high enough that I can’t kick your ass. What kind of question is this?”

“I’m not dealing with you in your sorry state. Call me.” He slams the door on his way out, and Bruce feels irrationally bad, like he owed Lex something and didn’t deliver.

“Fuck,” he grunts, pushing Oliver off him. “ _Fuck_.”

“Baby,” Oliver sighs, frowning.

It’s like a cold shower. Like someone opened the floodgates of the pain he has been carefully numbing for months now, covering it up with a different kind of suffering—suffering he can touch, suffering he can control.

“Don’t call me that,” he grits. Oliver raises his hands, taking a step back.

“No problem, man. You know I’m just worried about you.”

“Don’t,” Bruce huffs, irritated. “There’s nothing to be worried about.”

“As long as I’ve known you, you’ve _never_ fucked up anything Wayne Enterprises related. No matter the shit we pulled, you always knew when to stop because you had a responsibility.” He looks at Bruce intently, his green eyes filled with concern and something else Bruce can’t quite make out. It looks awfully like tenderness, and that’s not something he can deal with right now.

“Is this a lecture?”

“No,” Oliver shakes his head. “It’s just me making clear that you can talk to me about what’s eating at you. I’m the least equipped to judge you, and I have no interest in morals anyway.”

Dragging a hand down his face, Bruce breathes out slowly. “I told you, there’s nothing to talk about. I screwed up today, I shouldn’t have touched coke at a work function. I’m just stressed out. It’s this whole grad school thing, I still don’t know if I want to go.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Bullshit. Tell me the real reason.”

“I don’t owe you any explanation, Oliver.”

“It’s not about... Jesus, Bruce, that’s not how friendship works.”

“How would _you_ know,” Bruce mutters.

Oliver gasps dramatically, a hand over his heart. “Ouch, man. That hurt. I _do_ have feelings, you know? I also have friends. I _do_ ,” he laughs when Bruce raises an eyebrow dubiously. “Bruce,” he says, his tone back to serious. “Can you at least _think_ about seeing that girl I talked to you about?”

“You mean the one who’s not even licensed yet but that you somehow trust because you banged her once?”

His friend has at least the decency of looking guilty. “Listen, Dinah is great. She’s doing residency right now in Starling City, it’s one of the best hospitals in the region. You’re the one who refuses to see a shrink, so I thought talking to someone who isn’t _actually_ one but know their shit might help.”

“Oliver,” Bruce glares, “You think telling someone who _isn’t_ under oath of confidentiality about how not in control of my life I am is a good idea?”

“Relaaax,” Oliver sighs. “Trust me, if she wanted to make money selling secrets, she has more than enough on me already.”

“The last time I trusted you about something important, we ended up in jail in Mexico.”

“Okay, but it was fun. Come on, Bruce,” he tugs at Bruce’s sleeve, laughing. “It was fun, you bitter old man. Admit it.”

Bruce lets himself get reeled in, appreciating how nicely he fits against Oliver’s strong chest. He lowers his head to nuzzle the blond man’s neck lazily, presses an open-mouthed kiss to his throat. “Okay,” he smiles. “Yeah, it was fun.”

“There’s a good boy,” Oliver grins. “Hey, you wanna get back to what we were doing before Lex showed up and ruined everything as always? I liked that part.”

“You slut,” Bruce chuckles fondly.

“Yeah, sure, but baby,” Oliver falls back onto the armchair, tugging Bruce along with him, “I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

 

\--

 

“You need to get your shit together,” Lex tells him over brunch the next day.

Bruce pushes his sunglasses up his nose and blows cool air on his steaming coffee. “I’m sorry, who died and made you the boss of me?”

“Wayne,” Lex sighs, long-suffering. “I couldn’t care less about your personal wellbeing. But we’re business partners, apparently, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t overdose before you sign these contracts.”

“I’m feeling the love,” Bruce deadpans before taking a bite of his croissant.

“I have no love in me,” Lex says very seriously, staring at Bruce like he can look into his soul through his eyes. It’s kind of creepy. “Are you going to eat your eggs?”

“Don’t even think about it. Order your own, you cheap asshole.”

“Darling, I own this restaurant. Listen,” he says, taking a folder out of his briefcase, “I need you to look over these. Or have your lawyers look them over, I don’t care.”

“You do realize insulting me constantly isn’t exactly making me sweet on this whole partnership thing, right?”

“Well, it’s not an insult if it’s true, is it now?”

And, well. The thing is, Lex is right. Bruce needs to get his shit together, and he _will_ have his lawyers read the contracts. Not only because that’s the sensible thing to do anyways, but also because he doesn’t feel like he can trust himself at the moment, and that is… that’s everything he wanted to avoid. The reason he kept himself in check all these years, denying himself even the slightest of possible distractions.

There’s a before and an after Clark.

It’s not even the fact that he’s pining—which, if he has to be honest, he kind of is. He allowed himself this one thing, and now it’s hard to remember why he didn’t do that before, and how to go back. It was easy. _Clark_ was easy. Their companionship was effortless, and with him Bruce felt free and sheltered. He misses the sex, too. Now that he has admitted to himself he’s not actually attracted to women at all, he can’t bring himself to touch them. There have been a few boys, but most one-night stands don’t exactly react well to what Bruce is actually looking for, and it’s not like he has a vast pool of choice either. Ollie is… Ollie is nice. Familiar. A safe option. They have known each other since they were kids, and they were each other’s firsts during their St. Paul’s days, and Oliver is probably what Bruce would call his best friend if he believed in that kind of hierarchy. But Oliver will never give him what he wants in bed, because it’s not who he is. And Bruce respects that, of course he does, but it means all he can find in Oliver’s arms is temporary relief and shallow comfort.

He hates himself. Hates himself because he was stupid, and reckless. Hates himself because he placed his faith and all his hopes into one person, only to be disappointed once again and now he feels dead inside, like his strength his gone. Mostly, he hates himself because he lied to Clark, and he lied to himself, and now he can’t go back. He can’t go back to Clark and he can’t go back to how his life was _before Clark_ either and all that remains is this emptiness in his chest and _stupid_ brunch with _stupid_ Lex Luthor.

“Whatever,” he tells Lex, and then he decides he’s had enough and stands up, pushes the chair back with maybe more aggressiveness than is exactly necessary. “I’ll see you around.”

“See,” Lex scoffs, “You didn’t finish the eggs.”

Bruce wishes he could punch the satisfaction off his face.

 

\--

 

“Come on,” Oliver says, a wicked gleam in his eyes, his hands strong on Bruce’s biceps. They fall back on the bed, Oliver on top of him, still gripping his arms. Bruce’s hips buck up against his will and he whines, and Oliver lets go so he can press a palm to his chest and push him down. He buries his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck and inhales deeply, and Bruce can feel his breath hot on his skin, the drag of his stubble.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he hears himself say. He tugs at Oliver’s boxers impatiently, and Oliver giggles. He’s glad he listened to him and chose to forgo the coke for E. It makes him less anxious, and it kicks in way faster. “Ollie, get these off,” he orders.

“Yeah,” Oliver smiles, and Bruce only knows that because he felt his lips move against his throat, because he is feeling _everything_ , decoupled.

Oliver gets rid of his last piece of clothing and then proceeds to kiss his way down Bruce’s body, settles between his legs and puts his mouth on the inside of Bruce’s thigh, sucks a bruise on the sensitive skin there.

“ _F-fuck_ ,” Bruce gasps.

Oliver pulls away, grinning like a maniac. “Feel good?”

“Please,” is all Bruce manages to say.

“I could suck you off,” Oliver says, and Bruce can see he’s trying to sound casual, but he’s too turned on and too high for it to work. “But look at you,” he marvels. “You’re so hard, baby. You’d go off like a rocket. And we don’t want that, do we?” he whispers, lowering his head to blow some air on Bruce’s cock, and Bruce _keens_. The room is spinning. Oliver reaches for the lube they had the good idea of putting _on_ the nightstand at some point and pours a generous amount on his fingers. “So, I’m thinking I’m just gonna sit on your dick instead,” he says, reaching back to start working himself open.

“Tell me how it feels,” Bruce demands, raising a hand to touch Oliver’s face, trace the perfect lines of his nose, his lips.

“Good,” Ollie groans. “It’s good, Bruce, _fuck_ , but it’s not—it’s not enough—”

“I got you,” Bruce says, pushing himself up so he can kiss Oliver’s collarbone, nuzzle his neck lazily while Oliver fucks himself with his fingers until he’s panting and incoherent.

“Fuck,” Oliver groans, “Get in me.” And then he’s laughing, straddling Bruce’s legs and guiding his cock into him.

It’s like Bruce is in his bed and lost in the void at the same time. He can feel Ollie move, can feel him _around him_ , but his brain is going 120 miles per hour. He lets himself float, lets go, until there’s nothing but the explosion of colors under his eyelids. Oliver is riding him hard, head thrown back, making small noises every time Bruce hits his prostate. He comes like that, untouched, and then Bruce is flipping him over so he’s on his hands and knees, driving back in and pounding into him. He comes with a muffled shout, biting down on Oliver’s shoulder, sure to leave a mark.

They lay on their backs in Bruce’s giant bed for a long time, blissfully fucked out, happy in a strange, eerie kind of way. When Bruce comes down, Oliver is already sleeping, snoring lightly next to him.

The nausea isn’t a surprise, but the feeling of disgust and despair is. He kneels next to the toilet seat, throws up all he’s eaten and then some more. His heart is beating fast the way it always does when he’s close to panic, and the thought of it make him panic even _more_ , so he wipes his mouth on toilet paper and sits back on the tiled floor, his head between his hands. After a while, when the dizziness has passed, he pushes himself up, grabs a robe, tiptoes out of the room careful to not wake his best friend up and gets out in the hallway. On the wall facing him, his great-grandfather is watching him judgmentally. It’s disturbing. He should probably ask someone to move the painting at some point.

Finding Alfred isn’t hard. The man is in the dining room, concentrating on the newspaper’s crossword. Bruce hesitates before entering the room, stopping himself at the open door. But sneaking up on Alfred is literally impossible, and the butler raises his head from his newspaper immediately, turning to face him.

“Alfred,” Bruce says, and he wonders when his voice became so small, so afraid.

There is sadness in the way Alfred looks at him, but there is also softness, unfathomable in its abundance. “Yes, my boy?”

“Alfred,” he says again, and then he’s falling to his knees, his entire body shaken by loud, ugly sobs.

He hears more than he sees Alfred stand up, his chair dragging against the carpeted floor. He sits down next to Bruce, curls a hand around his neck so he can bring him closer, and Bruce just goes with it, presses his forehead to Alfred’s shoulder. He cries there for what feels like forever, Alfred stroking his hair in calming motions.

When Bruce hiccups one last time, the man who raised him finally asks, “Are you ready to ask for help now?”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
